


Pretzel Salt and Redbull Cans

by cluelesspaladin



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: College!AU, Hunk is an engineering major, M/M, Matt is, Pidge is an engineering major, Probably general studies, That's it, They're both disasters but they're cute, We don't know what Matt is okay, cute flirting via Matt, hunk goes in search of snacks and tames a wild Matt in the process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 03:04:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20369629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cluelesspaladin/pseuds/cluelesspaladin
Summary: “Pretzel?”The guy glances up at him, and it’s an older version of Pidge staring at him.“You’re Hunk.”“You’re Matt.”They stare at each other for several long seconds before Matt, not unlike a wary cat, reaches from under the table to extract a pretzel.“You want a Redbull?”“…Why not?”





	Pretzel Salt and Redbull Cans

It’s three am, Hunk has been running on fumes for the last twelve hours writing his alternative prosthetics thesis and helping Pidge build the actual prosthetic, he hasn’t slept in about four days _and_ he is almost positive that if he doesn’t get pretzels from the cafeteria vending machine that his brain is going to _explode_.

He also looks vaguely homeless, but that’s more due to the fact that he hasn’t showered in two days and he’s wearing his elder sister’s varsity sweatpants she sent him after he complained of homesickness. All issues that can be addressed after he feeds the craving for salt.

So, he bravely pulls a blanket over his shoulders, covering the baggy yellow sweater that Lance knit him for Christmas two years ago, ensures he does actually have change in his pockets, and embarks on his quest. (Pidge gurgles something that might have been English in another reality, barely looking up as she flaps a hand at him out the door.)

It’s November. There’s a thin layer of snow covering the ground, another layer of ice underneath that that catches many an unsuspecting freshman unawares. Despite the danger, and his general dislike of the cold, Hunk persists, finally making it to the cafeteria without incident.

During the day, the campus cafeteria is a place of warmth and the culinary students running the small café. At three am, one can expect to find the rare sleep deprived student-zombie shuffling around and looking for passable vending machine snacks.

No correlation to current events.

He barely staggers over to his destination- the blessed machine that holds all he holds dear to his heart- and fishes around his pocket for the stack of quarters that never leaves his side. Lance thinks it’s hilarious and often bugs Hunk to take him to the arcade across town because he knows Hunk won’t leave his snack change behind.

And then he registers the tapping noise.

It’s hardly surprising he didn’t hear it at first- it’s so quiet that he could have brushed it off as the vent rattling to life overhead, but Hunk knows machines, and that is definitely _not_ the sound of the vent.

Upon further investigation, Hunk realizes that there is someone underneath one of the tables, chairs arranged in a wall formation; sugar packet shrapnel and empty Redbull cans litter the floor around him. The tapping is a pen against the linoleum as the figure jots something down in a notebook, muttering under their breath the entire time.

“Uh, you okay down there?”

It seems like a stupid question, but once again. Three am. Finals week. What can you do.

“Pretty sure I can see sound and smell color. Also I haven’t slept in a week and this is my fifth cup of caffeinated water and Redbull. Redbull to replace what I think was supposed to be the coffee in this cup. And I have three more papers to write. And a painting to finish. And I think I was supposed to eat something in there but if I recall correctly this _is_ Thursday so I should have at least another two or three days before I pass out from exhaustion.”

The change makes small pinging noises as it rattles through the vending machine’s internal corridors, typing in the item number without looking.

It’s not the first time he’s been here, and he’s not afraid to admit it. He retrieves the pretzel bag from the death trap of a flap, glancing between it and the blond man under the table, before sighing and crouching down.

“Pretzel?”

The guy glances up at him, and it’s an older version of Pidge staring at him.

“You’re Hunk.”

“You’re Matt.”

They stare at each other for several long seconds before Matt, not unlike a wary cat, reaches from under the table to extract a pretzel.

“You want a Redbull?”

“…Why not?”

They unearth several chairs to squeeze him underneath the table, blanket and all.

They know one another through Pidge. She talks about them to the other, Hunk’s seen half of the photos that she shows him after breaks, but they have yet to have met face to face until now.

It turns out that Matt is taking the same calculus course that Hunk is, and they’re able to collaborate on the verbal jargon over several bags of pretzels as the early morning drags on. A handful of other desperate creatures emerge from the dark outside, shivering but determined as they come to scavenge what they need to survive before retreating.

By the time the dawn begins to break, Matt’s completed half of his calculus theory, begun writing half of one of his papers, and found an idea for the painting that he needed to do. Hunk is completely exhausted, his supply of Redbull dwindling after Matt had nearly torn his fingers off to chug it down an hour prior.

Also, his thesis is still sitting back in his and Pidge’s room and he has no idea if the younger Holt is still alive.

She probably is, if for no other reason than spite and peanut butter cookies.

“We should do this again sometime.” Matt hums, rubbing at his eyes behind his glasses. “When I’m not so wired. Grab a coffee or something.”

There’s something warm and fuzzy at the words- even though Matt looks like a petulant child pretending he isn’t tired, he has enjoyed spending time with the elder Holt sibling. Hunk stifles a yawn and nods with a chuckle, shifting and uncurling himself as he crawls from underneath the table. It’s a good thing there aren’t any classes today, or he would be in for a world more of hurt.

“I’d like that.” He grins tiredly.

Matt mumbles something that might be an answer, but he’s already scrawling something else into his notebook, head bobbing as he reaches for the final energy drink.

He grunts something else, his brain ahead of his mouth, as he returns to his room. As predicted, Pidge is still alive, passed out over the robotic arm she’s been trying to build for weeks. He follows suit, faceplanting onto his bed without a second thought, blanket smelling faintly of salt and Redbull.

Needless to say, Hunk didn’t get his thesis done until four pm that afternoon and mumbled something about clones to Pidge before crawling back into bed, wondering how Matt planned on taking him out to coffee if they’d never exchanged numbers.

Oh well.


End file.
